


This Tree

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Clint Needs a Hug, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does Clint deserve this life he's been given? A night alone sets this question up, and Phil is there to help with the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Tree

If Clint closed his eyes just a little, the Christmas lights blurred and looked a little less real, a little more like his imagination, like they could disappear any second, like he might wake up. The reds blended in with the pink, the blues blended with gold, and it looked like someone had smudged a painting of a Christmas tree.

He let his eyes close and took another swig of his beer.

It was beer out of a can, crappy, cheap alcohol he picked up at the corner store, and it tasted like garbage but went down easy. He twirled an unlit cigarette in his fingers and looked at the tree with his eyes open. The tree was gorgeous, all decked in multicolored lights with red, white, and green glass bulbs dotting the branches.

When they were decorating it a week ago, Phil had apologized that he didn't really have a variety of ornaments; apparently picking up kooky ornaments like flamingos or penguins or characters from movies was a thing that Phil had never gotten around to doing as an adult, even though that's what he'd had as a kid.

Not that Clint would know. He remembered a Christmas tree with his parents, but only one - the last year they'd been together as a family they couldn't afford one. Even the one he remembered was just decorated with strings of popcorn and multi-colored construction paper chains.

Clint thought _this_ tree, their tree, was the prettiest one he'd ever seen.

Phil had played Stan Kenton Christmas carols on the sound system as they drank wine and decorated the tree together. Clint laughed a lot as Phil struggled to put the lights on, but Clint secretly thought maybe putting lights on a tree was some sort of magic skill that he would never have. As if since he'd missed out on this part of growing up he missed his chance to learn the art of lighting a tree. He'd have to be satisfied with hanging bulbs and looking out of the corner of his eye as Phil watched him with a quiet smile.

Phil wouldn't be smiling now. Thankfully he was gone on an op and wouldn't be home for at least two more days, and Clint had just come off an op and was guaranteed a few days off. The timing was perfect.

It was also horrible.

It was times like this when Clint's head threatened to get the better of him. He stared at the gold star sitting at the top of the tree as the lights danced on its reflective surface. He finished a beer and opened another one. There wasn't any music playing now, and the silence was a perfect soundtrack for his thoughts.

He was drinking cheap beer and threatening to smoke a cigarette, and he was wondering how he got here, this nice two bedroom apartment within walking distance to the New York offices of SHIELD. He was wondering how he got to this job he loved, to the man he love, to his friends he could call right now and who would show up the second he asked if they thought he needed company.

He was wondering how he got to this life.

He didn't get it. He was orphaned by eight, on the run from the state by ten, kicked to the curb from the circus by seventeen, and dishonorably discharged from the Army for lying on his entrance paperwork by twenty. He followed that string of amazing experiences with the stellar decision to become a weapon for hire, and had added 'on the run from the law' by the age of twenty-one. When Nick dragged him out of a gutter in Berlin five years later, Clint had pretty much given up on apartments, boyfriends, and Christmas trees.

Now he finished another beer, cracked open a new one, dragged himself outside to the fire escape of their old apartment building, and lit his cigarette. The air was ice cold and Clint didn't have a coat, but he didn't let himself go back inside to get one. If he was going to be a moron and smoke, he deserved to fucking freeze. He sucked the smoke into his lungs and held it, stared at the black night sky seeping through the break in the rooftops, and let the fear gripping him surge forward.

He hadn't let himself think about it for a while, but he was afraid. His fear was hot, fierce, and sharp tonight, almost enough to keep the cold at bay. The glow of his cigarette tip reflected his fears, and he took another pull, feeling the nicotine rush down to his fingertips. Standing outside, in an alley, on a dingy fire escape felt normal, like it was where he was supposed to be, and as he turned to look through the window into the apartment he shared with Phil, he wondered if he would ever really, truly belong in there.

He smoked his cigarette, finished another beer, and realized his fingers were red with cold, so he climbed back inside. This time he put some music on the stereo, an old Rolling Stones album that Barney used to like. They shared a Walkman when they were in the circus - they'd scrounge the money for it for a year - and Barney picked most of the cassettes they had. Clint had convinced him to get a John Mellencamp tape and Def Leopard's first album, but Barney chose the rest, and he leaned toward the classic rock gang.

Now Clint turned all the lights off except the tree, and he drank another beer. The lights were getting fuzzy, and he pulled another cigarette out. He stayed on the couch, though, and switched the record to _Wish You Were Here_. As 'Welcome to the Machine' echoed through the room, he felt the paper of the cigarette brush between his fingers and wondered again about his place. Here he was, sitting on a plush couch in a New York apartment, and what the fuck was this? How did he belong here? What if someone figured it out, that Clint Barton had no place here? Surely one day Phil would realize that he was dating street trash and SHIELD would remember that he didn't even have a high school diploma.

Clint put his beer down and dropped his unlit cigarette to the floor and leaned forward. He put his head in his hands. "Fuck," he whispered to the empty room.

He didn't notice the front door lock turning or the door opening and closing quietly.

The music filled his ears and he pulled on his hair as panic rose in his chest. He really didn't deserve this. He wasn't anyone worth anything and sooner or later someone was going to figure it out and end this dream.

"Clint," Phil said, and Clint felt a weight settle on the couch next to him.

He turned his head and opened his eyes and Phil was there, his blue eyes filled with worry, his eyes tired and clothes disheveled.

"Phil," he whispered. "You're not supposed to be home."

"The mission was a bust. Bad intel and no situation to actually work with."

"And now you're home," Clint said.

"I'm home. What's wrong?"

Clint wanted to shrug it off. No big deal. He was fine. But there was an unlit cigarette on the floor and four empty beer cans at his feet. There was old music blaring in the background and frigid air blowing into the apartment from the open window.

He wasn't fine.

"You weren't supposed to be home," he replied, but that was the wrong answer.

"I guess you need some time alone sometimes," Phil said, and then he reached over and picked up the cigarette from the floor. "You don't usually smoke," he added as he spun the cigarette.

"Not usually," Clint answered.

"Clint."

There was no accusation, but there was a question.

"I just get scared sometimes," Clint said. This was Phil. He didn't have to worry. He could confess things to Phil.

"Scared? When I'm gone?"

Clint nodded. He could do this. He could tell Phil what's wrong. But he couldn't. "I just. You're _gone_ ," he said, and he knew he wasn't making sense.

"And you doubt yourself?" Phil said, and Clint wondered if Phil was clairvoyant.

Clint nodded. At least he didn't have to find the words.

Phil didn't find words either, but he shifted on the couch, put his arm around Clint's shoulder, and pulled him close.

Clint turned his body so that he was even closer, and pressed his forehead to Phil's. Phil closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

"Phil?" Clint whispered. He didn't understand why Phil was upset. This was Clint's shit, after all.

"You deserve everything," Phil said. "All of this."

And maybe he did. Maybe the mostly gone six-pack and couple of cigarettes were pointless, really. Maybe they were old ghosts, like the records, like the memories. They weren't where he was now, where he'd fought to be. They weren't his life anymore, but Phil was. This place was.

This tree was.

He’d helped pick it out. Phil said it was too short, but Clint had argued that it was rounder because of that. He’d helped put it in the tree stand and had draped the red and green tree skirt around the base. Maybe he’d never really known what a tree skirt was until this year, with Phil, but he was learning.

He saw what was reality and what was a dream, and here, now, Phil was real. Phil wasn’t a dream, and maybe Clint did deserve it. Maybe that wasn’t for him to worry about, for him to decide.

If Phil thought he was worth it, if Phil thought Clint could help put up a tree, well, maybe that’s all he needed.

Who knew? But now, tonight, Phil was here, on their couch, with Clint.

And that was enough. It would have to be. It was the reality Clint had, and it was bright and clear and good.

 


End file.
